Harness Your Blame
by jasperose
Summary: you burn down to ash again and again. maybe this time you'll get it right. faberry, post-OMW.


_i can't stop._

_post omw faberry, doy. again in second person. i think it's my thing.  
__let me know what you thought?  
__**i don't own any of this.** i also tried to spell 'don't' as 'downt.' killin it!_

_recommended listening:  
bloc party, "tulips," off their _little thoughts _ep.  
bon iver, "the wolves act I and II," off _for emma forever ago_._

* * *

_**Harness Your Blame (and walk through)**  
i took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. i am, i am, i am._

There's glass—you can feel it embedded in your skin—and blood, everywhere. So much blood it could fill rivers or lakes or your lungs. You try to cough, but something is pressing on your chest and tearing at your ribs. You think of Prometheus, and you think of the scavengers. You think of all the times you've been picked apart, only to be forced back together again.

You think of death.

Your grandfather died when you were just a girl, barely seven. The funeral was open casket. Russell made you kiss your grandfather's cheek, powdery and stiff.

Your lips tasted of sorrow for a very long time.

Your eyes burn. You're pretty sure your right contact slipped and your left eye won't open. Everything is distorted—the feel of your grandfather's papery cheek is tickling your lips.

You try not to cry.

xx.

Things are blurry and muffled, but in a strange way, a hazy way. There's an ache in your all-of-you, and your throat feels like you may have swallowed a lit match and burned from the inside out (it wouldn't be the first time).

A vague outline of _someone _is visible to your right, but you can't turn your head to see—you can't will your heart to hope. You frown, and your face is halfway there before you fall back under.

xx.

There are three things you know:

1. cats are assholes

2. there are many different types of love, each one more capable than the last of breaking your heart to pieces

3. you have never ever been in this much pain, and fuck it, you've given birth _and_ fallen hopelessly in love with a tiny Jewish diva, so.

You read somewhere the only thing more painful than childbirth is immolation. You don't know where you read that, or if it's true, but seeing as you've both given birth and burned down to ash, you think it's safe to say that fact is false.

Waking up in a hospital bed without the use of your legs, a tiny Jewish teenager asleep in a chair next to you with her fingers tangled through yours and tear tracks on her cheeks—this is the most painful thing (it doesn't help the morphine has worn off), because you can feel the cool metal of her engagement ring against your limp fingers, and it feels like nails through your palms.

xx.

You have a wheelchair and also you have rage. It is heavy and it is dark and you're afraid of what this means.

She has an engagement ring and she has changed plans and she is a ghost, even though you're the one that almost died.

She's a ghost, and you have rage so hot it's crippling (you're also full of ironic humour).

xx.

Your physical therapist is a dick. He makes you yell and thrash and once you hit him, right in the mouth. Everything stopped and you both stared at each other for a moment that heaved with each shudder of your broken lungs. Then, he smiled. Said, "let's try this again, hey Slugger?" Wiped the blood from his lip, winked at you.

You won't ever tell him, but you like him. He reminds you of someone else you've struck.

xx.

They don't get married.

This is a small consolation, because you are in a wheelchair and if you weren't in a wheelchair they would be married. You feel as if you are the cause of three people's incredible heartbreak, instead of just your own.

She's still a ghost. Sometimes, you catch yourself humming the Ghostbuster's theme in your head, every time you stare at her. Then you shake your head and internally berate yourself for being such a _nerd_ (but you ain't 'fraid of no ghosts).

She hasn't spoken to you since you woke up in the hospital and croaked out a raspy "Hi, Rachel," and she responded with choked tears and a voice so thick with guilt and somethingelse you could only make out, "Quinn," before she broke down completely and held onto your hand until you couldn't feel your fingers.

But she said your name like you said your prayers, so you think maybe it means something.

Her silence means something, too, you reason—she's loud even when she's not.

xx.

You decide—after a physical therapy session with Josh in which you punched the padded mat until your knuckles throbbed and he simply helped you back into your chair and handed you a Gatorade—that you will speak to her first. After all, you've already experienced items one and two on the list of most painful experiences.

What's one more?

xx.

Your chair makes cornering her more difficult, but with Sam's help you manage to track her down. Straightening your shoulders and patting your hair, smoothing your shirt, you say, "Rachel, may I please speak with you?"

She doesn't meet your eyes; you see her flickering in and out of sight, a side effect of the haphazard existence of ghosts. "O-of course, Quinn." She stutters and avoids. You and your newly re-spawned rage do not appreciate this (Puck has introduced your anger to Halo).

"Look at me," you implore. Her eyes jerk to yours and you see her solidify, see her turn to stone. You sigh, exhaling ash—a volcano's deceptive reprieve, your resignation to further destruction (without destruction there can be no growth).

"Rachel," soft and gentle; you reach for her hands. They crumble and reform in the spaces between your fingers, a perfect fit (it's begun).

"I'm so sorry," Rachel says in a watery voice. Her eyes are red and her throat bobs viciously with her swallows; it looks like more words are trying to force their way up.

You think of redemption, of rebirth and of deliverance. You think of her hand in yours, of hallways and of moments—spaces in between heartbeats, the infinitesimal pause of a breath. You think of destruction, of crumbled cities and broken walls. You remember what it takes to start anew.

Pulling her forward, you study your intertwined fingers—hers blessedly bare. "I remember lots of blood. And I remember it was hard to breathe, and my eyes stung." You tighten your hold and you meet her eyes and in an electrical storm you find her. "I remember thinking about sacrifice, and about consequence," you breathe, you grow, you continue, "and I remember thinking that, above all else, your happiness is what I wanted, even if it killed me."

Rachel cries, thick tears streaming down her cheeks and peaking her eyelashes. You think she looks beautiful. A tear splashes on your cheek as she hugs you tightly, and you think of baptism. You feel it, too.

xx.

Josh is being a real butthead. You're exhausted and your arms ache and you're hardly keeping yourself afloat, but he won't let you stop.

"There's a shark in the water! Paddle, Quinn, paddle!" he shouts from the edge, his eyes big and frantic. A wave of panic floods your stomach before you rationalize and glare at him. Rachel hums the _Jaws _theme from the pool deck.

You splash water at her and she giggles before putting her hands on her hips—reprimand stance. "What's the rule, Quinn?"

You know she knows the rule; she made it up. You scrunch your nose at her and turn back to Josh, but Rachel is adamant.

"I'm sorry, I'm fairly certain I asked you a question, Ms. Fabray. What is the rule?"

You groan and flop your head back, resting it in the water. "'No splashing unless it's with my legs,'" you drone, rolling your eyes.

"Right," Rachel nods, looking very self-satisfied. "Now, if you'd like to engage me in an armless splash battle, I'd be happy to oblige. Until then, kindly desist."

Josh smirks at you from the pool's edge. You stick your tongue out.

Ash is insubstantial, echoes of burned effigies and immolated imaginings. You think maybe you're fire, morphing and burning and growing, destroying and renewing.

The water ripples as you kick.

xx.

Rachel is there when you walk for the first time since February twenty-first. You take two steps and your feet barely leave the ground and you ache and collapse right after, but—_but_—you walk. This is the most wonderful thing you've known, second only to her smile.

There are tears in her eyes as she helps you up off the padded ground. Her hands are soft and gentle on your arms, like moth's wings or eyelashes against a cheek. You exhale and are pleasantly surprised to see snowflakes, drifting from your cooling mouth.

The fire is out. You've burned to dust, start again.

xx.

Nationals is hard, and exhausting, and so beautifully painful. You swear you'd never felt so pure as you did on that stage, dancing next to her and singing and _living_; life can grow in the most hopeless of places, as you've come to realize.

The plane ride back is killer. You take a Valium and try to sleep, steadfastly ignoring the ache of your back and legs. Rachel switches seats with Tina, and you settle your head against her shoulder. Her breath tickles your brow as she whispers softly, "You were amazing, Quinn."

xx.

Graduation comes quickly. Your mom (your _mom_) is a mess of nerves, clutching her purse tightly and obsessively fixing her hair. You hobble down the stairs with your cane, pausing to jauntily tip your hat in the hallway mirror and grin goofily at your mom.

She smiles—it's a striking truth, her smile—and shakes her head. "When did you become such a ham?" she wonders.

You stop and you think, and you realize perhaps it was around the time you just stopped giving a fuck, because you're alive and you love her and that's the only thing you've known for sure since junior year—then it was hardly a consoling thought; now it is your life raft.

You tell her, "I love you." You tell her, "I can walk."

Your mom cries and hugs you, and you think of cities being built, brick by brick.

xx.

Glee Club comes to your house after graduation; your mom insisted that she keep her hostess skills up to snuff, and she wanted a larger audience than you and Rachel or Brittany and Santana.

Heading inside to find your sunscreen and that one book you promised Santana, you turn to come back down the steps, only to find Rachel at the bottom of them (at the bottom of everything, really).

"Hi, Quinn," she says, softly.

"Hi, Rachel," you say, only this time there's no respirator or heart monitor or temporary paralysis.

She fits very well into your arms, like she's finally come home. Your heart swells so readily, you fear it will burst from your chest.

"I'm so proud of you," she whispers into your neck. The words sink into your skin.

"You're the best part of me," you whisper back, and everything calms.

xx.

You kiss her for the first time two weeks later, on a lazy summer day in your backyard. She tastes like sunlight and melon and mint lip balm, and your head swims. Rachel pulls back first and her eyes look like jewels.

"Hi, Quinn," she says. You feel it against your lips, in your chest, spread across your skin like wind.

"Hi, Rachel," it's a whisper, it's a plea, it's echoes of ghosts. Rachel smiles, and you combust, exhale your ghosts (ash in the wind). They're caught in a breeze.

Rachel kisses you again. She is warm in your arms. You feel flames lick at your lungs and you taste the smoke on your tongue. You breathe her, you exist. You start anew.

_when there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire._

* * *

_title is from Bon Iver's "the wolves act i and ii"  
sub-title is from Sylvia Plath's "the bell jar."  
__end quote is stars, "your ex-lover is dead," off their album _set yourself on fire_ (how appropriate)_

_let me know what you thought, team!_

_xx J._


End file.
